


Treasured Moments

by LyssGreen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Existentialism, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Major Character Injury, and assumes it's unrequited, and that Geralt won't rememeber him when he's gone, and the consideration of death, cause we feeling cheery today, he's wrong., i know its looking a bit bleak and depressing, it will end happily, look trust me i will fix everything next chapter, no beta we die like witchers, spoiler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyssGreen/pseuds/LyssGreen
Summary: “When all is over, the only things that will be left are your own memories. Treasured moments. Your name, your impact. It will all disappear.”Jaskier didn’t consider himself to be particularly nihilistic or morose – really he didn’t.  A bard’s job was to immortalise past moments, to use them to bring joy to the present.  He lived in the moment, making the most of every single second – tomorrow be damned. Because if you could make something amazing today you can die happy tomorrow.-Jaskier is injured trying to save Geralt on what was supposed to be a simple enough contract and as his life flashes before his eyes he's struck by just how unfair it seems that Geralt is the most important person to him, the one who features in so many of Jaskier's own beloved memories, and yet the Witcher will long outlive and forget him, Or at least that's what Jaskier assumes
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> idek guys, i'm ill, and i had a very existential topic in my university class the other day and somehow those two things combined with my consumption of pretty much every damn Geraskier fic on this site has spawned this. Not beta'd in any way so sorry for any mistakes - also we're gonna pretend that Jaskier's native dialect is like Slavic so I can explain his chosen name, k?  
> (general warnings for some slightly existential topics and canon typical blood and guts and such, nothing to graphic tho)

“When all is over, the only things that will be left are your own memories. Treasured moments. Your name, your impact. It will all disappear.”

Jaskier didn’t consider himself to be particularly nihilistic or morose – really he didn’t. However he did always remember those words from one of his former professors in Oxenfurt. And perhaps that’s why poetry and his work as a bard became so important to him. A bard’s job was to immortalise past moments, to use them to bring joy to the present – perhaps to help create someone else’s newest treasured memory. He lived in the moment, making the most of every single second – tomorrow be damned. Because if you could make something amazing today you can die happy tomorrow. 

After meeting Geralt he had considered that old, dusty history lecturer's words more often. He knew that Geralt would long outlive him. He was only in his early twenties when they met – now he’s pushing rapidly into his 30s. And yet Geralt hadn’t aged a day. Jaskier acknowledged he would fade from time, even if his songs remained it was Geralt who would be remembered – he would simply be ‘the bard who wrote that song about the White Wolf’. On the days where Jaskier was feeling slightly maudlin he accepted that really, Geralt would be the only one who would remember his name, and even then – was Jaskier really all that important in the grand scheme of Geralt’s life? He didn’t know exactly how old the Witcher was but he knew it was more than a century. They had only travelled on and off over the past decade and a bit. Geralt would be alive for a lot longer yet, he will probably forget about him in the end too. 

Which is why it was so unfair how much of Jaskier’s ‘treasured moments’ were centred on that gruff, emotionally unavailable man. Why it was so unfair that even as he saw the danger coming for the Witcher – who was currently preoccupied with the already present danger, dealing with the griffon pinning him to a tree – Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to run, to save himself. No, he couldn’t leave Geralt and hope he could handle one more griffon than they had expected to run into. So he dove infront of the diving new griffon, sinking a small, but in the grand scheme of things absolutely useless, silver blade into the feathered hide and closing his eyes as he waited for the beast to just kill him already. He bought the time Geralt needed he hoped. 

  
-

  
He already knew that the days he would always remember would be centred on Geralt, on the years in his late teenage years and onwards.

He remembered the moment he stepped up to Oxenfurt University for the first time, finally having escaped his family, that awful full title of his – Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. His family didn’t feature in any of his most beloved memories. Only the experience of escaping them, of finding adventure.

He remembered the conversation with his friends in his second year of his studies, debating what his pen name should be for poetry. Dandelion had been suggested first, and then his friend from the same area as him, who spoke the same regional dialect had given him the name he would use from then on – Jaskier. It meant buttercup in their dialect. He always did love flowers. 

Then came the ‘Geralt years’. There were too many memories he loved to even consider singling each one out. Instead it was just the flashes of so many nights around fires, camping outside in damp woods or far too cold mountain sides and yet Jaskier could handle it if it let him continue his great adventure. It was the rare occasions that Geralt would smile, the half laughs that he sometimes was rewarded with for his particularly silly song lyrics he made up for entertainment on the road. It was the pure and simple safety he felt with the Witcher that by all rights he ought to have been scared of. He couldn’t ever be scared of Geralt though. Even when Jaskier knew he was annoying the Witcher he refused to be scared, he trusted that Witcher with his life. And with his heart, even if Geralt didn’t even know he had it.

His treasured moments were those occasions that he suddenly realised how he was falling for the Witcher. (Well, he fell for more or less everyone he set his sights on. But this was different.) It was that feeling in his chest when he saw Geralt come back from a hunt unharmed, that warmth that had come to settle in his chest in an emotion he dared not name but he dubbed as simply being ‘for Geralt’. He cared for wounds and did everything he could to help Geralt, he knew from that first hunt that he would walk head first into danger and follow Geralt to the end of the world. He cared far too much for that silver hair and those golden cat eyes – those damned eyes. Gorgeous and shining and gold, pretty and all seeing and yet unable to ever return Jaskier’s affection. It hurt to think about (or was that the gashes in his chest?) but he knew he didn’t regret falling for Geralt, falling for those golden eyes. It was unfair, but he didn't regret a thing. It was the last thing he could think of as he suddenly was dragged from his recollection by a sense of numbing cold crawling into his bones.

It was unfair that as Jaskier’s most treasured memories flashed before his eyes as he felt the claws tear into his chest, his last thought would be of Geralt. And Geralt wouldn’t even remember him in a decade, maybe less. 

\-----

  
It was supposed to be a relatively standard contract. Geralt wouldn’t have even considered bringing Jaskier with him if he had even had an idea that there would be more than one Griffon in these hills. It was meant to be straightforward and along the way the bard would get to see the beast. He had seemed so excited about seeing a griffon in the flesh and had spent half the morning waxing poetic about how its feathers must be beautiful. Geralt hadn’t had the heart to tell the bard off for is constant chattering, even if he was just talking in circles the whole time. Geralt enjoyed seeing the bard happy too much to ask him to be quiet. 

There wasn’t supposed to be two beasts. 

Geralt had long since learnt Jaskier wasn’t totally helpless. Apparently even before travelling the Path alongside the witcher, the bard had learnt how to defend himself. Geralt never asked how he learnt how to brandish a dagger just so in order to parry a blade he could see coming. He played at being far more helpless than he was – whatever the man’s past was it was something Geralt had accepted wasn’t his business to know, even if secretly he did want to know more about the bard. After a year together Geralt had bought a silver dagger for Jaskier so that he could defend himself better on hunts. 

But that wasn’t enough to deal with a griffon alone. 

Geralt had been blindsided by the first one, the powerful wingbeats making it difficult to stand his ground and as the beast neared its end it fought back more viciously than before, pinning the witcher back against a tree and digging sharp talons into the leather chest plate protecting Geralt’s vital organs. He just needed the claws to loosen ever so slightly so that he could get his blade up, if he could just- 

“Geralt!” He heard the shout come just before the yelp of pain, a second set of wingbeats, a beastial scream. 

The griffon currently pinning Geralt also heard the scream, reacting and moing to turn towards the sound of the second griffon, lifting its clawed foot slightly in the process and giving Geralt the breathing room he needed to drive his sword into the beast’s chest. It dropped like a macabre curtain to reveal Jaskier, latched onto the second griffon, its claws clasped solidly around Jaskier’s torso, digging in and drawing blood. Far, far too much blood. Geralt felt the hollow feeling of his already slow heart skipping a beat, felt the acrid sickness rise in his throat as whatever was still conscious in Jaskier and allowing him to cling to the silver blade dug into the feathered leg gave up, and his body was tossed away, boneless. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt didn’t remember shouting, didn’t remember allowing so much emotion to creep up to the surface, years of repressing feelings finally now reaching the breaking point as he dealt with the griffon messily in a rage. He barely even waited for the beast’s body to hit the floor before skidding to his knees on the ground where Jaskier had been thrown. 

  
Blood stained his vibrant clothes a dark red, obscuring the pretty blues it was supposed to be. Gashes in the fabric gave way to skin and muscle torn open. He pressed down, perhaps in vain by this point- but no, Geralt couldn’t allow himself to consider it, he couldn’t consider a life after losing Jaskier. That’s why he had to be okay.   
“Jas, Jaskier! Jask listen to me, you have to wake up!” He started to carefully bundle the bard into his arms, wary of the injuries and blood. The smell was awful, the scent of blood – Jaskier’s blood – registering as wrong. Something that never should be on the air, “Come on, Jask, please.” Geralt found himself babbling as he carried the dead weight back to their camp just a short walk away. 

As he lay Jaskier down the bard opened blue eyes, glazed over and barely even seeing, but they focussed onto Geralt’s.   
“Gold... gorgeous gold…” The words were drowned by the blood rushing in Geralt’s ears. Which was unfair, he wished he listened closer, because it was really just too silent after that, and as he sat beside Jaskier’s cold form, willing him to recover – wake up – he was left with only memories of the Bard’s chatter and singing to fill the silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh, sorry..? I'll fix all next chapter I promise and I'll get it done as soon as my illness riddled brain can manage. kudos and comments add years to my lifespan - and years to Jaskier's, he'll need em lol


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt worries about his bard and is starting to realise he has caught feelings for Jaskier.

Geralt wasn’t kidding himself, it didn’t look good. As much as he would like to pretend that the return of the bard’s inane chatter was a certainty, that he would definitely be awake and whining about his damaged hand come the morning – he couldn’t. Equally, however, there was no certainty that Jaskier was gone yet. And that was perhaps one of the only things holding Geralt’s fragile temper together.

He had spent a long time working over the wounds, all the time muttering to himself, talking to a man who couldn’t talk back.

“Stupid, Jaskier, why would you do that? You must have known – do you have a death wish or something?”

The immediate fear had left, the intense terror that had gripped him earlier and made him come far closer to crying than he would admit under torture. Instead there was a hollow worry left over, a certain optimism that pulled him to keep denying the existence of the worst case scenario.

“It’s far too fucking quiet now, how are we going to pay for our food now, I’m certainly not going to be the one singing for our supper.”

He cut the bard’s expensive blue clothes away from his body, all pretty silks and expensive lapis dyes. Jaskier would shout at him for that, call him an uncultured brute. ‘It’s already beyond repair,’ Geralt would reason. And then he told himself off for having an imaginary conversation in his head.

“Gods I’m going mad already…”

There were three deep wounds. One across his chest, spanning from the collar bone – dangerously close to Jaskier’s neck – down to just below his nipple. The other two were on his side, where the griffon claws had dug in along his ribcage. The rough throw had broken a bone in his forearm – Geralt was almost glad that Jaskier wasn’t awake to experience the pain of that being set. Apart from bloodloss there was nothing seriously deadly about any of these injuries – and Geralt counted it as possibly his luckiest day ever. For how deep the puncture wounds from the talons had gone they had somehow all avoided doing any damage to the Bard’s lungs. The muscles would heal incredibly slowly considering the damage, the wounds would scar something awful. His hand would take time to fully set. His lungs weren’t going to suddenly collapse or fill with blood, his twindpipe had narrowly avoided being slashed – but avoided it all the same, his arm wasn’t in desperate need of specialised treatment (although Geralt was definitely taking Jaskier to a healer as soon as they were able to travel, he didn’t care about the cost). All in all – the only real issue was the bloodloss. And for that there was little Geralt could do after the wounds were sown shut and carefully disinfected. He had already given Jaskier the few potions and remedies he carried solely for the human, his own potions were too strong - toxic even to a witcher really, he just had to be careful how much he consumed. Instead the potions he had been able to give Jaskier were weak, barely water next to what Geralt could stomach, but they would help all the same. Eventually.

It was a waiting game.

Jaskier was laid out on both bedrolls piled atop one another, all of their blankets wrapped carefully around him, a cocoon that Geralt prayed would protect him. The bloodloss left him cold and pale and even in the relatively mild spring air his skin felt worryingly like ice to the touch. The skin looked papery and fragile _and gods humans really are just so breakable._

Of course Geralt had known that but there was a difference between knowing and seeing your best friend, the person you care for, bleeding out – _all to try and help me_ , he thought bitterly.

Jaskier could have run. That’s usually what he did with his problems, run away or run to Geralt – which ever was a possibility at the time. Instead he ran towards danger and paid the price.

Geralt heard the sudden low growl and it took him a moment to realise he himself was who made it. Suddenly feeling very protective of the small human in front of him he moved closer, sitting up by his head and resting a hand on the uninjured shoulder, fingers lying on the collar bone just above the pulse point. Geralt may have already been able to hear Jaskier’s heart without being so close, it was more comforting to be able to feel it. To feel the quick but weak beats beneath his skin, to feel that shallow rise and fall of his chest. As long as he kept feeling that, Jaskier was alive.

“When did I let you mean so much to me, Jaskier.”

The darkening night didn’t answer him, nor did the wounded bard. His other hand stayed solidly on his silver sword. He’d be damned if he let another creature near Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, short chapter. It was just an ending point that made sense and also I have a class in like 7 hours.... I expect it'll only be one more chapter after this - maybe our idiots will finally realise they should just kiss already. Nothing like the fear of imminent death to remind you what's important, eh?


End file.
